


Raining In My Head

by InkSplodge



Series: Can't Help [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: I used the relationship tag because Morse is thinking about Thursday, Masturbation, Other, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSplodge/pseuds/InkSplodge
Summary: Morse wakes up from a dream, but it's not a bad dream, it's a too-good-to-be-true dream.





	Raining In My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Title and song I wrote this to: "Here Comes The Rain Again" by Eurythmics

A deep breath in. Morse startles himself awake, sweating under the covers.

Another shaky breath but not from a bad dream. Instead, from a good dream, a too-good-to-be-true dream.

The imagery of his dream still lingers behind closed eyelids. Thursday. Thursday’s dark but kind eyes, that stupidly wonderful greying hair moving forward. A vision before Thursday kisses Morse.

Morse isn’t even surprised. Recently, when he isn’t even thinking, Thursday is the only thing on his mind. When his mind is blank, the ideas that Thursday appears from the doorway overwhelm him. Thursday comes over, kisses him, touches him, does everything Morse wants him to do.

It’s not a surprise he’s hard under the covers.

Letting himself breath, Morse brings cold fingers over his face. Breathing, the image of Thursday is still burnt into his memory.

He hears the rain falling outside. No wonder freezing air circulates around the bed.

Twisting his head, he peers over to the curtains. Early morning light, blue soft light, slips through the cracks. Eyes wonder over to the record player. Sometimes Morse plays it whilst finding release; something to fill his head, a form of imagination, the idea that someone else is there.

But it’s a far walk, at least seems like a far walk. Morse is comfortable. The rain and the dream are enough.

A hand travels under the covers, stops to stroke through his underwear. Letting out a sigh, Morse turns his head to the wall, cool air circulating around his head.

He wonders if Thursday is awake now, if Thursday is thinking of him, if Thursday is doing this to himself.

It’s a nice thought, wonderful thought, but unlikely. Morse thinks of something else as the rain hammers outside.

His opposite hand comes under the vest, cold fingers dragging up his torso. Their cold enough to not feel like his own. A breath out as fingers reach his nipples. He imagines it’s Thursday, wonders if Thursday would be inclined towards it. Would he want his hands over every inch of skin, want to test and feel his way through, or would Thursday not be able to control himself around him.

Morse moves both hands, pulls down his underwear over the curve of his ass, leaves it settled high on his thighs. Left hand comes back to push up his vest, fingertips skimming over skin, other hand wrapping around himself. A shuddered breath leaves himself. Moments pass before Morse settle a little more comfortable, spine still digging into the mattress.

Bringing his head to the centre of the pillow, Morse leave his eyeline on the ceiling, the hand around himself being a grounding force. He knows it won’t be long so tries to make it last.

Fingers release and instead run up the underside. Agonisingly slow, almost torturing, wondering if it’s what Thursday would do. Want it to last that little bit longer, want to hear all the noises Morse can make. Hand strokes down his thigh, claw back up. Morse twists his head into the mattress.

Maybe Thursday would want Morse spread out for him. With a yank down and a twist of the leg, Morse’s underwear is left forgotten around one ankle. He hitches his knees up, spreads them enough to cause a twinge in his thighs.

The hand on his chest spreads out, moves up and down his torso for a moment in rhythm to his other hand. Strokes himself lightly. Moans out.

Would Thursday speak, would he be quiet? Would he repeat his name?

_Morse. Lad. Son._

Morse stutters out a breath, hand now gripped around the base of his member.

Would Thursday want him to speak? Want him to be vocal, or to be as quiet as possible. The hand on his torso moves up, under his vest, to settle across his own collarbone. Fingers feel the hollow of skin and bones. The hand spreads up his neck, feeling pulse points, squeezes ever so slightly.

His other hand moves around himself, a moan filling the air as he thinks about Thursday. The dream’s image fades slightly, but Morse can still see him.

_Thursday._

Thursday’s dark but kind eyes, that stupidly wonderful greying hair.

Morse climaxes, Thursday’s name on his lips.

Eyes crunch up, panting out. Morse brings the hand up from his chest over his eyes. Fingertips move the reminiscence of tears.

For a moment, Morse wonders how he can look Thursday in the eye after this. But he has done. He’s done this before, had these dreams before.

Every time is plays out the same.

Not wanting to move or clean up, his other hand still around himself, his eyes more to the window. The blue morning light is still there, but the sound of the rain is gone.


End file.
